


Simultaneous Contrast

by laEsmeralda



Series: Walking the Walk [6]
Category: White Collar
Genre: M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-21
Updated: 2012-07-21
Packaged: 2017-11-05 14:35:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/407542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laEsmeralda/pseuds/laEsmeralda





	Simultaneous Contrast

Title: Simultaneous Contrast  
Author: Esmeralda (Live Journal laesmeralda)  
Fandom: White Collar  
Dramatis Personae: Neal/Peter with some Peter/Elizabeth and Elizabeth/Neal  
Thread: Follows [ Confidence: Part 1](http://laesmeralda.livejournal.com/14465.html#cutid1)  
Rating: R to NC-17  
Disclaimer: This is a transformative work of impure fiction.  
Beta: Libitina (back for a very special engagement)  
Feedback: Responses, including constructive criticism, are welcome.  
Original Date: Written April-May 2012 

Reference: For those too young to have read or seen _Breakfast at Tiffany’s_ , the 1961 Audrey Hepburn film is iconic, but you might have to read the 1958 Truman Capote novella (just released in e-book form) to catch the subtextual fluidity of Holly Golightly’s sexual orientation, and that of her best friend and beau, Peter (aka Fred). For solace, Holly often goes to Tiffany’s after an all-night party and eats a pastry while window-gazing. Even though she doesn’t “give a hoot about jewellery,” she goes there for comfort because, “…nothing very bad could happen to you there, not with those kind men in their nice suits, and that lovely smell of silver and alligator wallets.”  
*******  


She’s been selecting gifts for Peter and changing her mind for weeks. Ever since the watch, she’s begun second guessing herself, noticed how some things become a talisman for Peter, like the silly mug, but others are worn or used a few times and then simply given a place of respect and left alone.

The experience-gifts are usually a smash hit, baseball tickets, a gangster tour, but she wants to give him something lasting this year. Something that will always remind them of this strange and beautiful time.

Her girlfriends are no help. Elizabeth suddenly realizes how materialistic their thinking has become. That isn’t a pleasant revelation.

She hypothesizes that it’s the combination of her success at work and Peter’s newfound ability to express his love for Neal that drive her to question whether she has taken enough time of late to know her husband as well as she thinks she does. Peter likes his touchstones to be steady and reliable, flexible but familiar, but then… Neal. The old saying, ‘people don’t change’—complete crap. 

_It’s only an anniversary gift,_ she tells herself. With good health, she thinks, they’ll have forty odd more chances to delight or disappoint. But life can also be short and unpredictable. 

She makes a tough decision and returns the new suit. Thank goodness she hadn’t had it tailored. He has subtly shifted his style, probably unconsciously picking up Neal’s taste, and she had thought to respond to that. Upon reflection, it seems like the watch, pushing him beyond his comfort zone, perhaps something to be misread as a criticism. She isn’t interested in changing him, only in helping him not underestimate himself.

His gift the previous year certainly upped the ante. Thinking about that, she has another revelation. This time, more pleasant.

“I feel silly asking, but could you help with an anniversary gift for Peter?” The silence in response seems so long she thinks they might have been disconnected. “Neal?”

“Um. Yes. Of course.”

Elizabeth wonders… she already asked him if this is a good time to talk, assumes he’s not entertaining. She hasn’t said anything any more incriminating than their usual coded conversations might contain. “You’re hesitant.”

“It’s just… he loves your gifts. You should trust your instincts. It isn’t my place.”

“Your place?” She absorbs that for a few moments. “You’re my friend. I already talked to my other friends and that was unproductive to the point that I’m questioning those relationships.” She takes a beat. “But I get the sense you’re uncomfortable, and I don’t want you to be.”

Neal sighs. “Meet me for coffee?” A signal to speak in a safe environment.

The indie coffee shop Neal favors, while perhaps lacking in swank, racks major points for intimacy of spaces to talk. 

“Decaf?” Elizabeth cannot believe her ears, but she watches him drink it.

Neal smiles, and she can see the _tired_ in him. “I’m not sleeping well, thought I’d try it.” He doesn’t elaborate. “Now, why the gift crisis?”

“Okay, I know that you helped Peter with our trip last year.” Neal blinks at her, neither admitting nor denying. “And I’m not asking for quid pro quo. I just need a little help.”

He traces the watermark left on a napkin. “Your relationship is wonderful. Then I come along and shift the dynamic. That’s inevitable. But I don’t want to shift the balance. You don’t need me in order to be the incredible partner you’ve always been. So, yeah, it feels a little unsettling to be asked.”

Everything he has said makes perfect sense. She studies him, the lovely planes of his face, the fox-like sharpness that keeps the beauty from being dull, the smile lines around his eyes and mouth, the lingering sadness that you have to know him well to see. If Peter were sitting across from him right now, he’d have to fight the urge to lean over and kiss him. But she’s herself, so she extends her hand until their fingertips touch. His are manicured, as are hers, but there’s a bit of greasy color beneath one fingernail, bright green. It catches her attention even as she continues with the conversation. “I understand. And I’ve suddenly realized that it’s selfish to ask you help with an official celebration of our relationship when yours is secret.”

“Wait, no… that’s not it at all.” His fingertips slide over hers, just pads to nails. “Right now, I like secret. Think of it this way. Over and over again, Peter has to prove how much he wants me, risking embarrassment and reprisal.”

She giggles. “You’re an _incorrigible_ puppy as it turns out.”

“So… correct me,” he offers, in a moment, playful, the next, smoldering.

“Wow,” she breathes. “You better pull that back.”

“What?” he challenges. “You can handle it, as you’ve now demonstrated on several occasions.”

She hasn’t withdrawn her hand. He hasn’t advanced. She accepts the challenge. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking that I deny any feelings for you. They get daily mental airtime. And I can’t put how I feel about you into one drawer. I’ve tried.” She slides her fingers out and tops his to precisely the same degree. “This thing you do with me, I know it’s not a game. I think you’re trying to make it all simpler, easier to understand. You want me to respond, but you also want me to shut it down so you don’t have to feel responsible.” She sees his guard start to go up. 

“I’m not trying to manipulate you.” He sounds hurt. 

“And I’m not saying that you are.” Elizabeth presses his fingers under hers for a moment, wanting to reassure him. “Instead of fighting it, or acting on it, try just letting it be all it is.” 

“That’s very Zen-master of you.” But he seems more open, calmer. Smiles at her, one of his easy smiles. “If anyone looked at us right now, they’d think we’re lovers.”

She considers, carefully. “We are.”

An eyebrow flickers. “An unconventional view.”

“You like unconventional.”

This time, the smile blooms, reaches his eyes. “Whatever you do or find for Peter for this occasion, he knows the breadth and intensity of your love for him.”

It’s like being in the sun. Being with Neal when he’s like this could so easily become intoxicating. But unlike most people, she doesn’t live with the constant notion that all good things must come to an end, that great passions will inevitably cool, that love cannot last. That fact alone gives her unusual strength. All at once, the most right idea washes over her. Her eyes flick to that flake of green paint before zeroing in on Neal’s eyes. 

“What.”

“I know what to give him. I really can’t do it without you.”

His Adam’s apple bobs and he seems truly at a loss for words. 

“No, _really_. I need artist Neal.”

“Thank God,” he says. “I thought for a moment you meant—“

“Will you help?” She knows she’s taking advantage but the idea is too good to let it go.  
*******

For the tenth time, Neal rearranges supplies within reach. He revisits the thermostat, making it warmer than he would prefer himself. 

An artist friend of a friend, away in France, has lent Elizabeth this studio. To Neal’s surprise, she handed him the keys without a warning. It gave him a disproportionate warm feeling.

He has set up several sheet-covered options, to see where she’s most comfortable. 

His phone buzzes and he runs down to let her in. They don’t hug. He immediately senses her nerves, tries to be brisk and casual. But she’s trembling when he takes her coat, so he clasps her shoulder. “You can always change your mind,” he murmurs. She shakes her head. “Drink?”

“I think I should do this without.”

He’s not entirely sure he should, but follows her lead and pours them each a glass of water. Then, he puts on some music, a jazz playlist he thinks will help. Elizabeth turns to him, looking so scared that he wants to rescue her, and so determined that he’s sure a rescue would be the wrong thing entirely. 

“So… tell me what to do.”

He tries very hard not to see her, all the complexity she represents, but to see what he would in any arms-length arrangement. Immediately, that very notion seems laughable. He sighs. “Let’s start with some simple sketches. Clothed. While we talk about the commission. Just sit wherever you like.”

She laughs, but it’s strained. She chooses the low-backed divan, tucks a leg under herself. He begins with charcoal. 

“I can execute almost any style you like,” he begins. “Who are your favorite painters?”

“Neal.” It’s a scold, at least that’s how he hears it. That one word brings his face up, two quick studies of her face and neck and hand already complete. He meets her eyes and recognizes _frustrated_. There’s something he’s missed.

“I should have made this clear—I want this to be you, not Matisse or Rembrandt or Kandinsky. A work by you, signed by you, an original Neal Caffrey. A real commission. I talked with some people I know about price, so we’re not negotiating.” 

He must look surprised because she sits up straighter. “I can afford to go to another painter. Or a photographer. But I trust you, only you, to get this right.”

Not that he feels any pressure. He moves her from seat to seat, does studies of her facing away, looking over her shoulder, lying down with her eyes closed, reading, tries a standing pose or two. He perspires in the heat, ends up in his undershirt. 

Finally, he calls it and glances at the clock. Two hours, it’s late, and they both work tomorrow. But he’s more relaxed, absorbed into the work, and she’s easier. They agree to meet the next afternoon, cheating the workday clock just a bit.

Peter calls him right as he’s sliding into bed. They don’t talk long, it’s really about hearing one another’s voices, the ordinary cadences they can’t trade while Peter’s away. But just Peter’s voice is enough to heat him to the edge and after they hang up, Neal hits the shower and works himself hard.  
*******

Again, she chooses the divan. He tries other arrangements, but it’s where she’s most comfortable, she likes to lean, prefers her feet up. He just can’t envision her as an odalisque, so he has to find another conceit. 

They chat more than the first time, and after 45 minutes, he says, “There’s a clean robe in the bathroom.” He doesn’t look up from the drawing. She moves slowly, and he knows she’s steeling herself, exactly the wrong mindset for what he needs. 

While she’s out of the room, he grabs the divan and drags it in front of the window. He hears her pad up behind him. “Leave the robe on for now,” he says, and then turns to her. Her eyes are huge with vulnerability. He reaches into his pocket and uses his phone to snap a close up before she can react. “That will help with detail when I work on you after hours.” 

She nods. “I said I trust you. Whatever you need.”

He steps in and wraps his arms around her in a hug. She’s far too apprehensive for his body to respond to her sexually, and he takes the opportunity to be reassuring. “Think only about Peter,” he begins, and she eases against him. “It’s your anniversary date. You’ve suggested skipping the whole dinner tradition because we have this all-consuming case and you don’t want him to be more stressed. Instead, he’s supposed to take a long lunch and come home to you for a tryst. You promise to wait for him upstairs. There’s a thunderstorm, and he’s about ten minutes late so far. How do you feel?” He starts a tiny sway, hypnotic, while she tries to find the right mind-space.

“I’m worried, trying not to call him yet.” She pauses. “But it hasn’t been so long that I’m annoyed. I’ve been preparing, anticipating, so I’m… I—”

“Don’t tell me,” he interrupts, “just feel it. He’s going to walk through the front door any time now, drop his wet coat on the floor and take the stairs two at a time to get to you. You’re watching for him out the window because he’s late... nothing else can hold your attention.” He feels the shift in her, and then it’s no longer completely safe. He steps back and guides her to the divan. He knows she can see that the window faces a blank wall—it’s there for indirect light only. He places her hands lightly on the backrest and she kneels up onto the seat to look down at the imaginary street, one foot still on the floor. He backs away.

“Almost perfect.” He drags the easel closer and starts a sketch on the canvas. “Lean in on the window jamb to your right and look down and left as though you want to see the car coming.” This isn’t quite the final pose, but it will help him start to get the angles right. He grabs the sketchpad to make a study. In case she looks at the canvas, he’ll have to save that for later.

Wiping his hands, he approaches her again. Studiously, she doesn’t budge. “You know,” he says, “this silk is gorgeous on you. Let’s leave it on.”

“I’m not chickening out,” she replies lightly but closes her eyes, not realizing that he can see her expression reflected in the window. 

Neal reaches around and unties the robe, then catches the silk in just a skim of his hands and slides it off her shoulders, letting it hang on her forearms and pool around her knees. He adjusts her face with a light touch to her chin and rearranges her hair. Working quickly, he masking tapes onto the furniture the angle of her hands, her shoulder on the window jamb, one curve of her hip against the backrest, the inside and outside of her legs, the foot on the floor. And then he’s back at the easel, sketching in earnest both there and in the pad. 

“You okay?” he asks after fifteen minutes. “Warm enough? Need to pee?”

“I’m fine,” she answers, and she’s steady now.

“I’d like to mix colors if you can stand a little longer.”

“Sure.” 

“Just ten more minutes.” He’s been sweating for some time, pauses to take a drink of water and walks her glass over to her, holds it while she drinks. He has to stand near her for that, and from his higher vantage point, must ignore a view of her breasts that has nothing to do with his painting. 

The late afternoon light bounces off raw concrete before touching her warmth. He hopes that will come across when the scene depicts a stormy afternoon out the Burke bedroom window. Her luminosity picks up colors from the blue robe, the divan’s rich brown. Reflected in the window are yet other colors. 

At some point while mixing, staring at her skin for extended periods, absorbing, committing to canvas the light and shadow values, he stops being able to merely paint a subject. Her ghost blinks tiredly, and he wonders what she’s thinking. The small of her back as it rounds into her bottom becomes like a siren’s call. He starts to ache. “We should call it a day, Elizabeth,” he says, using her name to remind himself of many things. He starts wiping his hands and dipping brushes in thinner.

“Thank God,” she says, breaking the pose, her head falling back as she reaches down to shrug back into the robe. 

They don’t speak while she goes in the bathroom to dress. He’s looking at the work in progress when she comes out. “I’ll have to keep at it tonight while it’s all fresh, both the image and the paint.” The fever is on him now, to work through.

“Can I get you some food?”

“I’ll order in. When’s he back from the conference?”

“Tomorrow night.”

Saturday. That opens better possibilities. “Can you come back tomorrow, late morning? If we have three hours, with breaks, I can finish. It’s better if the light is real. And then it will have time to dry.”

She consults her planner. “I’ll rearrange something. And I’ll bring lunch.” Looking back at the rough canvas, she says, “You are amazing. I knew it would be good, but this soon, this fast?”

“Ah, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet, Baby,” he jokes.

Her eyes widen in surprise. “Really.” 

He smiles. He isn’t arrogant about his work, but it feels especially good to paint as himself. “I’ll need a shot of your bedroom window from inside. Take it from the doorway without any lights on, while there’s still light outside if you can, and text me.”

After she’s gone and the food has arrived, he eats and observes. First, he looks cerebrally, checking proportions and light values. There isn’t much color yet, just reference touches. He gets up and corrects a couple of lines, roughs in her reflected face and torso. Returns to his seat for the last bites of food he doesn’t taste and flips through the sketches. 

Then, he consciously opens his emotions to the painting, and to the experience of painting _her_ standing naked less than six feet away. That treats him to a hard on almost immediately. Artistically, the three-quarter view, with a high light source, is almost always a good choice. The curve of her left breast with a hint of nipple seems unduly enticing, the sweep of that lowered arm, the wrist upturned, almost beckoning the awaited lover. But he doesn’t kid himself, the composition is good but his model is amazing. He knows her, this woman, existentially, and he wants her. 

It strikes him, perhaps belatedly, that there’s a lot of Kate in Elizabeth. El’s eyes are darker, her sense of humor easier. She’s a decade Kate’s elder, curvier below the waist, much more decisive, fierce. But if Kate had lived, matured, maybe… It helps him understand what has become a burden for him. It isn’t anything he can’t handle, but damn if the two Burkes haven’t challenged every resource he can bring to bear to keep it that way. 

Neal polishes off the glass of water and puts himself back to work. The best antidote is absorption in the act of creation. After an hour, he takes a break and calls Peter. That puts him on edge again, but he doesn’t answer the call of his hand this time, rather, uses the edge to pour more passion onto the canvas and sketchpad.  
*******

Peter no sooner hangs up with Neal than El calls him. There’s something in her voice that he can’t name, an unusual weakness. “I’m so glad you’re home tomorrow,” she says with feeling, and it warms him. 

He only feels a little strange saying, “Wanna have phone sex anyway?” 

When she laughs and says, “Of course,” the weakness is gone, and he feels instantly better, even before they get started.  
*******

She’s irked because he won’t show her. Her arms are folded and he feels as though he’s fighting an uphill battle. Again. And then, she seems to refocus on him. He doesn’t know what gives it away, the stubble, a certain bleariness to his eyes—after all he has showered and changed clothes.

“You haven’t slept.”

“A little.” Maybe for ninety minutes after the sun rose. But he doesn’t say so. “I ate breakfast at least. Coffee and fresh croissants. Not exactly starving artist.”

She softens. “Don’t know what’s gotten into me, I’ve become so bossy. I said I trust you and I do. I’m just excited to see it.”

“I’m withholding for a reason. I don’t want self-consciousness to set in. Go get changed, we can put in a half hour before lunch.” He lets a little bit of I’m-in-charge-here slip into his voice.

She’s almost remorseful when she comes back out, doesn’t try to see around him. “Neal, I want you to know how grateful I am for all of this.”

“You don’t have to be grateful, you just have to behave so I can attempt to achieve this tall order you’ve given me.” He guides her to the seat, helps her find the marks. Then he steps back. 

“The robe?”

“You want me to do it?” He deliberately casts his voice into a lower register. 

That brings her face around more but she doesn’t lose the angle of her shoulders. “Yeah.”

He thinks that she might add, “I don’t want to mess up the pose.” But she doesn’t. This time, as much as it tortures him, he doesn’t spare her his fingertips as he slides the cloth down her body. He hears her breath catch. As he moves her chin into the right angle, he presses his lips to her jaw below her ear. Not a kiss exactly. He knows his stubble is rough against her skin, wants to bring her into her body. He fixes her hair and moves away. 

Now she has the right tension, with a subtle yield in the right direction. He returns long enough to shift her left hand from gripping the divan to the position it had inadvertently rolled into yesterday, showing that the wait at the window isn’t short. He drifts into the zone. 

“What?” he says, surfacing.

“I have to move. I’m sorry.”

He glances at the clock. “Holy shit, Elizabeth.” It has been a straight run of forty minutes. He puts down the brush and grabs a rag, moving fast, knowing she’ll falter when she tries to stand. He catches her as she almost goes down, propped leg asleep. 

“I’m fine,” she protests, trying to pull away.

The robe isn’t tied and it’s sliding all over the place. He wraps her tightly and scoops her onto the divan. He’s creaky himself from standing so long in one place. “I… didn’t mean to go away. You should have said something sooner.”

“Didn’t want to break your concentration,” she replies. 

He’s crouching next to her and suddenly doubts his choice of poses. 

“What?” Apparently, she’s getting better at reading him.

“I need to confirm something, at the risk of wasting all this work.”

“Okay…”

“Bear with me?” She nods, and he spreads his hands in an “easy, girl” gesture before lifting her far arm back over her head and flicking the robe apart to leave her reclining mostly nude. He moves away briskly and takes up the charcoal. He knows she’s watching him and he likes it. Usually, models absent themselves, whiling away the time. Finally, he steps up from the stool and brings the drawing to her. He already knows the answer but wants her to confirm it. “Done.”

She pulls the robe around herself as he approaches. After a moment, she says, “Wow. I could never let Peter hang that in the house.” 

“A museum would be better,” he agrees, trying to keep it light. He knows what she really means.

She touches his wrist. “I defer to you.”

“My first instinct was right. This pose is classic, for good reasons—I’m partial to Fortuny’s vision, 1861 more than 1862—but it’s hypersexual. Besides, for you, the pose is too passive.” He smiles down at her as he stands. “You could drag a person of either sex across a crowded room with that look, but you’re not the ‘just lie there and wait’ type.”

Elizabeth sits up clutching the robe to her. “I need food. Let’s eat.” She doesn’t seem shaky any longer, so he gives her plenty of personal space, taking the time to wipe down his hands of paint and then wash them at the work sink. He excuses himself to the bathroom. 

When he comes back, she seems more herself. As usual, her picnic basket is bountiful. Suddenly, he’s starving for protein and mows through a heap of smoked salmon on a rye slab. He pauses, fingers still in mouth, mid-swallow, when he sees her open-mouthed, startled look. He raises an eyebrow.

She laughs. “Sorry. I don’t usually see the barbarian side of you, Mr. Refinement.”

“I’m hungry,” he mumbles defensively, cramming more into his mouth and reaching for cheese.

“I didn’t say it wasn’t sexy,” she replies, with mischief.

He points a pinky at her as it’s the only finger not occupied with food. “Check that if you don’t want it back in kind.”

She sips diet cream soda and pulls tops off strawberries. “Who says I don’t?”

He shakes his head. “Oh, no. You’ve been… weird. In here. So now I’ve seen you naked. I know it’s an extra big deal to women. I respect that. But honestly, these past few days, you make me feel like a pervert even when I don’t let any banter slip.” 

She blushes hard. “Seems like my day to apologize for everything. I’m sorry.”

“No need. I just can’t be a perfect gentleman and the friend with whom you share sexual mischief at the same time, not in this context.” 

Putting down a strawberry, Elizabeth composes her hands in her lap. “This is much harder for me than I thought it would be and for different reasons. It isn’t that you’re misbehaving or I don’t trust you. It’s what’s going on in my head that’s a problem. It never occurred to me when I asked you to do this. I was so damn scared that getting over being scared was all I could think about. But I got over it.”

He debates while munching grapes. A wiser man would leave it there. “And that’s a problem how?”

“You’re being so professional. Detached. Deliberate. You’re trying to make me feel certain ways to get the image right. That’s artistic manipulation, of course. But those things you do have a real effect. Then, I’m standing there, feeling your eyes on me and it… the more I try not to respond, the worse it gets. And you’re all objective over there.” 

Neal wipes his face and hands with a napkin. “Objective.”

“Totally. Your eyes are so different. You could be looking at a piece of stone.”

He reaches for the sketchpad. “Flip through that, starting at the beginning, and tell me how objective you think I am.” Might as well give her the full brunt of it now. And that’s only just a tiny bit manipulative. Mostly, he wants her to know. 

Her eyes flick through the first few images, appreciating, and then she reaches the ones he did after she left the first night. Her fingers grow more hesitant but she keeps going, all the way to the end. Watching her makes him hard again. When she looks up, slowly, he focuses intently on drinking down a whole glass of water. 

“Now I extra have to apologize,” she murmurs.

“For the record, the right piece of stone turns me on. Now that I know we’re in the crazy boat together, it actually makes me feel better. Shall we finish? The light is perfect.” He offers her his hand as he stands, no longer very concerned with whether his jeans give him away or not. 

They repeat the ritual of positioning, but this time, as he makes her naked, her eyes catch his in the reflection of which she’s finally aware. When he touches the inside of her knee to move her leg out closer to the mark, it’s slippery. He pretends not to notice but he doesn’t put his lips to her neck this time, it would be superfluous. 

He works feverishly on the finish, retouching the light, smoothing the skin, careful not to meet her eyes again. At last, he goes to the studio door, opens it, closes it more loudly than necessary, and catches her startled gaze in the window. “Don’t move,” he says. Ten minutes more and he has it. “Okay, get dressed and I’ll show you.” He turns the easel away before she can cross behind him, fiddles a bit more here and there. And then, it feels finished. He steps back far enough to check the distance effect, and light seems to fill his chest. 

Soon, Elizabeth is standing in the bathroom doorway in her jeans and plain navy sweater, her hair in a ponytail. She looks more like the woman he wouldn’t dare try to fuck, his lover’s beloved wife. Thank God. He takes a deep breath and beckons her to come look. 

She’s so quiet for so long that he thinks she hates it. And then, one hand sneaks up and wipes her face. He moves to the side and sees that she’s crying. “You’re a damn genius,” she says. “I don’t know what else to say.” 

“It is good enough to sign, I think,” he says, trying to be truly _objective._ He takes her hand.

“Yeah.” She squeezes his hand and lets it go, reaching for her purse. “That stuff a few days ago about just letting it be? Total crap as it turns out.” She won’t look at him. “I want to tear off your clothes and fuck you senseless, right here on this gritty, paint spattered floor because I so desperately need you inside me. It’s that good. Instead, I’m leaving this instant. We’ll talk when I’m in my right mind.” 

He’s stunned, and she makes a clean escape. Not that he would have tried to stop her. 

Still, his shadow self waits with bated breath for that text asking him to come let her back up, stays poised for it. He defers to that self, looking again at his Elizabeth for Peter, signing her, composing a title. In six or eight months, he’ll ask for the painting back to glaze it after it cures. He putters with closing tubes, scraping the palette, cleaning brushes, snapping some photos. 

After fifteen minutes, having indulged long enough the dark hope that she would come to him, knowing that he wouldn’t turn her away if she did, he goes to wash his face before heading home too. In the bathroom, he spies the robe. It leaves with him, along with the sheets, the sketch pad, and the picnic basket. The painting will dry here alone until the appointed time next week.  
*******

There’s a moment the second time through when the tool at hand does not seem big enough or powerful enough to satisfy her to the point of purging the demon idea. But she comes again, and finally, the world shifts back on its axis to resume its usual spin. She falls to her side in their bed and lets some curative tears run. 

Peter will understand although she won’t be free to explain to him exactly why this struck her so hard now. If it were a generic fantasy, a faceless stranger, she would feel no obligation to tell him. Again, she tells herself that even if Peter is confused and worried, he’ll understand. After a while, she goes to take a shower, ready to greet him with an enthusiasm that hasn’t waned despite recent events. 

Once dressed, with Satch fed and their own dinner on order, she phones Neal.

“Elizabeth,” he answers right away. “You okay?”

“Are you?” 

He laughs, readily. “I’m good. I finally have company in purgatory. No, I’m teasing.”

“I’m so sorry. I can’t believe I said what I did before I left. I wasn’t thinking about how it would affect you.”

“You’re more than forgiven. Have you ever read any artist biographies?” His tone is light.

“Not really.”

“Just as well. They’re usually dreadful tales of extended misery punctuated by brilliance. But if you read any three, from any period of time, you’d find a statistically significant sample of artist-model hookups. From which I’ve formulated a theory other than that artists are all narcissistic, hard-hearted, horny, cheating bastards who don’t care about anyone else.”

She can’t withstand his sense of humor, and laughs. “I’m listening.”

“Creativity moves a lot of energy around—it’s a natural high. Since the model engages in the creative process with the artist, it’s easy for them to get carried away together. It feels personal, but it probably isn’t.”

She’s liking this theory. “Thank you for being the responsible one today.” 

“I believe you left before I could demonstrate anything like responsible.”

She shuts her eyes. They are breaking Neal’s rule by being even this specific. But she has to say it. “Not true. You could tell when… you touched my leg. You hesitated.” He doesn’t answer, she knows he doesn’t like lying to her. “Anyway, I don’t know what I would have done if you’d really touched me. That’s what worries me.”

“Try not to worry about the mistakes you don’t actually make,” Neal replies with warmth. “Now go. Peter’ll be home any minute, right?”  
*******

He had been fast asleep when Peter called from the airport. It was nice to be greeted as part of homecoming. When he told Peter he had a dinner date with a Met research librarian, he had sensed relief. He couldn’t quite bring himself to feel sorry for Peter, feeling like he had to keep everyone happy. 

Fortunately, when Elizabeth calls, he is awake and alert, fixing himself an espresso to perk up for the evening. He doesn’t want to talk to her while lounging in bed. He’s stark naked, but being upright, with real coffee in hand, seems a far less vulnerable position.

Still, damn her if the urges don’t come right back the second he hears her voice. Not good. Trying to _ignore_ as a methodology suddenly seems completely naïve. Giving in looks more promising. 

After she rings off, Neal paces. He wants the date to be its own thing. Right now, he’s sure it can’t be.

The robe catches his peripheral vision, lounging with the sheets in a pile on its way to the washing machine. He does the espresso shot and confronts the demonic article of clothing. He picks it up and presses it to his face. She wore it for hours over three days, sweat, lotion, and more intimate emollients permeate the silk. He carries it to the bed and spreads it out, rolling onto his back, wrapping it around him, feeling it slide against his skin. Warming it makes the light scent stronger, it’s driving him more than a little mad now. He decides that half-measures are for the weak; cathartic approaches have always resonated with him. 

Neal rewinds to the studio, to the moment he touches her and finds her leg wet. 

_Instead of moving her to find the pose, he lets his fingers trace upward, following the trail, rubbing it into her skin. She holds very still. That, and her breathing gives him permission. He continues. He wants her to move, to turn and throw herself against him, but he can’t imagine it, disciplined as she is. At the join of her thigh and labia, he pauses, leans forward to kiss the side of her face._

_She presses back against his chest. He slides to his knees, clothing grazing her bare skin. Ever so gently, he bites high on her tender backside, daring to leave a little mark. His thumb slips inside her, fingers forward. She’s so wet he almost can’t get a grip, rocks her between his hand and shoulder until she cries out (a familiar sound, after all) and shudders around him. Struggling to his feet, he tears open his fly and plunges in while she’s still shocking, hard and harder, dragging her hips back against him._

Alone in his bed, he groans through gritted teeth, surrounded by her smell.  
*******

A casual dinner, at home, with a lovely Bordeaux. She can tell that Peter appreciates the low-key approach this year. She’s chosen a stretchy cotton dress that Peter likes, comfortable and easy to take off. He has discarded his tie before dinner, and his shoes and socks after, so they can play footsie under the table. 

“Time for presents,” she says, trying to contain her nerves and excitement about the painting.

He smiles, indulgently. He reaches into his nearby briefcase and hands her a box, suspiciously, a jewelry box, light blue with white ribbon. 

All projected smiles, she opens it, hoping he hasn’t mortgaged something for stones she’ll like because he chose them, but not for any other reason. Instead, there’s a scroll inside. She pulls off the ribbon and unrolls it. Several pieces of paper separate and float into her lap. Tickets to a jazz retrospective. A contemporary ballet. A private exhibition and after-party at the Guggenheim. The events spread out over the year to come. And there’s a handwritten note that says, “Have breakfast at Tiffany’s with me on days when we’re too busy for anything else.” Elizabeth beams and squeals, then hugs and kisses him effusively, sliding onto his lap, straddling him. 

“I love it all, my thoughtful husband.” He’s been studying her, and it’s so much hotter than jewelry could ever be. She cocks her head. “The box was an unusually mischievous touch,” she remarks.

“Caffrey’s idea. The rest, all me this time.” The doorbell rings. Peter immediately looks belligerent.

Elizabeth grins at him. “Ah, my assistant, right on cue.” She extracts herself and goes to the door. She hasn’t seen Neal since Monday when she tried to pay him the $4,000, insisting that it wasn’t nearly enough as things stood. He touched her cheek and said her money wasn’t any good to him. At her panicked expression, he laughed and elaborated that the pure pleasure of painting as himself, not to mention painting her naked, and then having her give that painting to Peter, all constitute a payoff better than his last heist. That’s when she decided he should be there for the gifting.

He looks blessedly normal. They exchange rapid whispers and then she ushers him in, holding the door wide to prevent any mishaps.

“I might forgive you if you tell me that you had no choice,” Peter says to him. But any trace of annoyance has vanished. Neal does not really constitute an interruption. 

“She _made_ me,” Neal complains. “So bossy.”

Elizabeth playfully swats the back of Neal’s head. She unfolds an easel and helps him lift the craft-paper-wrapped package safely to rest. The 36 x 48 looks large in this room, and her cheeks start to heat. Her eyes meet Neal’s, answers his unspoken question with a little nod. He removes the string and loosens the wrapping.

“Dare I ask?” Peter says, his lips quirked and amused as he looks from one of them to the other.

“Best not,” Neal answers and removes himself to a respectful distance.

“Honey.” Elizabeth turns to Peter and clasps her hands, readying for a little speech. “This is a special anniversary in its own way this year. I’m celebrating the unique permutation of our relationship that includes Neal. Having survived his entry into our lives a few years ago as what can only be termed _un homme fatal_ , he has proven to be true friend, a loyal partner, and I have concluded, the other love of your life.” 

Only Neal’s face registers shock. Peter just looks at her with love and gratitude. They can’t see each other.

Elizabeth stifles a smile. “But enough drama. It seemed fitting that Neal and I should collaborate on your present this year, as you did on mine last year. And no, Peter, he didn’t breathe a word.” She carefully frees the temporarily framed canvas and steps away.

Peter is on his feet in an instant, putting to rest any doubt as to the recognizability of the subject. He approaches the painting, slowly, reads the title, _Date d’Anniversaire_.

Elizabeth goes to Neal, waits with him side by side, not touching, her heart racing. Sometimes, the absolute right gift is a no-brainer. Sometimes, not. This one is a huge risk for all of them. Peter is shaking his head now, and she starts to feel a little faint.

“Magnificent,” he says, his voice thick. His fingers touch the frame near the signature. “Her eyes in the window…” He turns to them. In three strides, he’s kissing Elizabeth, wrapping her tight in his arms. He’s hard against her and she thrills in relief, and triumph, and desire.

Neal takes a respectful step back, but Peter sets Elizabeth back down and moves on him, pulling him close. When their mouths meet with hunger, Elizabeth feels a bolt of pleasure, like being physically entered. She wonders if there exists any number of repetitions at which this would cease to be exciting.

Peter eases back, a hand on Elizabeth’s waist and one on Neal’s shoulder. “I get it now.” He looks at El. “You tried to explain, and I tried so hard to understand.” 

“I know,” Elizabeth replies, and can’t keep the remorse out of her voice. 

“Oh, hell,” Neal says.

Peter rubs his forehead. “It isn’t every day that my wife tells me she can’t stop thinking about having sex with another man.”

Neal reflexively takes another step back, and Peter’s hand falls away. 

“I make allowances that we’re speaking of you. She couldn’t tell me about the circumstances without spoiling the surprise and so, of course, I spun some wildly inaccurate scenarios.” He looks searchingly at Neal. “She did say that you were absolutely the gentleman while I was away.” Peter glances back at the painting. “Jesus. How is that even possible?”

Neal smiles wanly. “Turns out I have more willpower than I gave myself credit for.”

“And it turns out, I don’t.” Elizabeth wants this all to be simple and it isn’t. Probably won’t be ever again. Her brain suddenly hurts. “I almost texted you, Neal, right after I left, to let me back in.”

“How is that not a demonstration of willpower,” Neal says, gently. “Remember? A mistake you didn’t actually make.” 

“It’s really a bonus gift,” Peter declares. 

“What?” she and Neal ask in unison, which seems to embarrass everyone.

Peter sighs. “There shouldn’t be a Chinese wall among us. Not long ago, Elizabeth said that we should be mindful of what should be real versus fantasy. Okay, so let’s be mindful. The two of you have acted with integrity, notwithstanding Elizabeth’s feelings of guilt over some recent vibratory relief—“

“Peter!” She’s horrified, particularly seeing the flash of unconcealed response in Neal’s eyes.

“—shush, honey … I’ve got no reason to doubt either of you. I’m in a different place now than three weeks ago. If it turns out that you both, each, do want something more, outside your heads, then fine. A bonus gift.” He looks at each of them, and the painting, again. 

“No.” Neal puts up a hand. “Not yet. Maybe not at all. That hasn’t changed for me. As I explained to Elizabeth, making a work of art together is intense and infused with all kinds of confounding energy. That needs to fade before either of us can know. I want these relationships to last.”

He doesn’t say, _Especially with you Peter,_ but she hears him think it. The concurrence Elizabeth feels with Neal right then almost makes her throw herself into his arms in relief. She nods. 

“I do have a token of the artist’s esteem for you,” Neal says to Elizabeth, a little shyly. He goes back to the entryway and returns with a small craft-wrapped bundle. She doesn’t recall seeing him stash it, but then… Neal.

It is with some trepidation that she opens the package. The deep-blue silk robe, clean and pressed, slithers out. She catches it on the way to the floor. 

“A memento,” Neal says.

“This is for me?” she asks, surprised. “I thought it belonged to the studio.”

“Like I’d let some shabby, used garment touch that skin. Besides, I was particular about the color. It had to be just right.”

“Oh,” she replies, smoothing it over her arm. “Thank you.”

“That’s my guy,” Peter beams at Elizabeth. “Kinda takes the pressure off me, actually, to have a detail-savvy teammate. I never appreciated before the potential benefits of a triangle.”

Elizabeth sees what Peter doesn’t yet, Neal’s ire sparking up. He starts to pace. She moves to touch his arm just as he turns his back on her to face Peter. She pulls back to what seems like a safer distance from the two of them. 

“Benefits. Okay, let’s talk candidly about benefits,” Neal says after a deep breath.

She can tell by Peter’s face that he doesn’t understand why Neal is upset. She thinks she does. But there’s nothing to be done about it now.

“Right after you called Saturday from the airport and woke me up, Elizabeth called to check on me. Just the sound of her voice sent me back to bed with that damn robe. I needed to smell her while I got off.” Neal runs both hands through his hair, looking desperate. “Understand clearly that in my mind, I was touching her _in that very pose_ I had just spent three days and two nights having to observe in every possible detail. I fucked her, bare, while she was still coming. I could feel everything, so it was over too damn quickly.” Neal’s arms fold over his chest. “You see, Peter, the term _triangle_ suggests more than a dotted line on that third side to which you are referring. How’s the pressure now?” 

Peter says, quietly, “That’s a lot to take in.” His body language is open, but his lips are tight.

“I choose to live with the dotted line. But don’t take it for granted. I’m not—.”

“I _said_ teammate, which implies equality if you’d just listen.”

“Truce. Please,” Elizabeth interjects. Shaken by their exchange and her own turmoil, she walks to the dining table and folds the robe there.

They both suddenly focus on her, as if surprised to find her in their midst. She sees Neal realize the error, and he steps her way. “Oh, God, I didn’t mean to…”

She puts up her hands, warding him off. 

He looks at Peter. “This is _exactly_ what I mean. I don’t triangulate well. The very word means something divisive.”

Peter rubs his face in frustration. “Can I pour anyone a glass of wine?” he says at last. 

There’s a long moment of tension. Elizabeth decides light sarcasm is the antidote. “Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly use a drink,” she laughs, though it has a raggedy edge. She takes a seat on the couch and holds out her glass.

Neal joins her, carefully sitting at the far end from her. He looks like he’s trying to take up as little space as possible. 

Peter busies himself with opening another bottle and pouring.

“I’m so sorry,” Neal says softly to his couch mate. “That wasn’t the way I wanted you to hear that. In fact, I’m pretty sure I never wanted you to hear that.”

She smiles at him ruefully. “Now we’re definitely even for what I said to you at the studio.”

“Thank you for that.” He looks relieved. But he’s Neal. After a minute, a look of renewed mischief begins somewhere around his mouth and spreads up to his eyes. 

As much as she’d like it to be otherwise right now, that look speaks to the fire in her belly. “Neal…“

“I can keep it to myself,” he replies, lightly.

Perhaps because Peter sits down in the chair and refrains from asking, and Neal stays quiet, Elizabeth feels empowered. She takes a long sip and savors the wine. “No you can’t,” she says.

“Really—”

“Spill,” Elizabeth replies.

Neal raises a brow. “Okay. While I accept the spirit of ‘even,’ I can’t help but wonder if what you said to me at the studio found its way into the—how did you put it, Peter, vibratory relief?”

It is a miraculous piece of wisdom that Peter isn’t saying a word. Elizabeth decides that if she doesn’t play their game, these boys are going to think they have the upper hand, the only key to the executive washroom. Which will be unacceptable. She searches for the mindset in which she can say things to Peter on the phone that normally aren’t part of her conversations. “It started with your fantasy, Neal. But it didn’t end quite the same. Women have the advantage under the right circumstances of going again, right away.”

Neal sucks in a breath so hard he almost chokes on wine. And just like that, the tables are turned. She refuses to laugh, just raises an eyebrow like he did, and then looks to Peter. Oh, yes, both of them are pupils-blown, stone-hard now. 

She refocuses on Neal. “So, after your scenario, mine.”

“What…” Peter begins, and then clears his throat. “Would you mind letting me in on it, since he seems to already know?” 

“You want to hear it now?” It isn’t a taunt, she wants to be sure. “Like this?”

Peter’s eyes shift to Neal and stay there. “Yes,” Peter says. 

Aha. He likes what this is doing to Neal more than he fears what he might hear. She swirls her wine. “All right, you heard Neal’s version, which is remarkably close to mine, except that because he’s not a woman, I have to stop him before he gets to the end or else we’re done. I feel guilty as hell as it is, if there’s any kind of extended pause, I’m out.” She checks Peter’s face in her peripheral vision. He’s still watching Neal watch her. 

“Having to hold still for hours was a weird turn on, which led to the idea of ‘what if I just let him…’ But it leaves me strangely unsatisfied despite an orgasm. Because I stopped him, pushed him away, he doesn’t expect me to come at him. He’s trying to close his fly when I rip his undershirt off, which makes him stumble back. There’s a look Neal gets when the unexpected happens that isn’t a bad-unexpected, but something he definitely didn’t anticipate, which actually delights him.” She pauses. “A hazard of being so smart is never having a good surprise, am I right?”

Neal looks back at her like she just pulled off an amazing magic trick. It’s interesting, having them both so rapt. But looking at Neal while describing is too provocative. Looking at Peter would exclude Neal. She decides to continue contemplating her wineglass.

“He has that look, and it’s gasoline on the fire, so I drag him down to lie on that gritty floor which I know is going to hurt my knees but I don’t give a damn. He surrenders, lets me take over, yank down his jeans. He’s still wet from me so I can slam down on him, because I need it deep and right now.” There’s a sound from Peter’s direction although he hasn’t budged a muscle as far as she can tell. She pauses. 

“Don’t stop,” he says, breathlessly. 

She doesn’t ask Neal’s permission. He can get up and leave anytime he wants. “I can finally breathe again, with him back inside. He seems nervous, doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so I drag them onto my hips and lean forward so far I’m almost lying on him, hands by his chest. You know, Peter, don’t you?” she says, still not looking at either of them. “The angle is better that way.” Another inarticulate sound from Peter. 

“I want to take my time, watching his face, but it isn’t going to last. He’s determined to hold on as long as it takes. But I’ve seen what he looks like when you take him to that place and now it’s me taking him there. I want to see it again, and I realize that’s why the first round wasn’t satisfying. I couldn’t see his face. That takes me over the edge, and I feel him go with me.” She lets the moment hang. Sets her glass down because she needs to hide that her hands are shaking. “So ends the desperation.” 

Slowly, she raises her eyes. Peter’s hands are gripping the armrests. He’s looking at Neal, so she follows his gaze. Neal’s eyes are closed, his chest rapidly rising and falling, his fingers are dug into the couch fabric. Her eyes fall to his lap, and then away. She wants to touch him, to relieve the obvious ache. “Am I forgiven?” she asks Peter.

“You already were, Hon,” he replies, his voice deep and edgy. “Neal, if I had been you, I would have broken all the rules with her. You’re the better man.”

The sharp blueness is a shock when his eyes open. They slide from Peter to Elizabeth. “I think I just decided that I can’t handle playing in your league,” he says to her, hoarsely.

Peter chuckles as he gets up from the chair. “You just need to train.” He walks over to them, and eases to his knees in front of Neal. A big hand lands on each thigh. “I’d like to show my appreciation for your incredible restraint,” he says directly to Neal. 

Neal tries to sit up straighter. “It’s your anniversary,” he says, glancing between Peter and Elizabeth again.

“Exactly,” Elizabeth says. “A celebration of how Peter and I uniquely love one another.” She takes Neal’s hand and entangles their fingers.

Peter’s hands slide up over Neal’s groin, pressing firmly on the way to his belt. 

A hard exhale betrays Neal’s outward composure. 

“Honey,” Peter says, “could I trouble you to scooch a little closer?”

“Exactly how much closer?”

“If Neal could turn toward me just a bit, like that, just—”

“Ah, got it.” Elizabeth slips into the space between Neal’s shoulder, hip, and the couch, so that he’s cushioned against the right front of her body. She tucks her legs up behind her. She can feel Neal trembling. She extends her arm over the couch behind his head. “You smell good,” she says to him, close by his ear. 

“I think you’re trying to murder me,” Neal murmurs. He sounds like that’s just fine with him.  
Peter’s face is so serious as he unbuckles and unzips, freeing Neal carefully. Neal’s fingers tighten on Elizabeth’s. “I adore the painting,” Peter says, smiling at both of them as he slowly strokes Neal. “I want to hang it where everyone can see it, but since I’m very likely to get hard every time I look at it, I think it has to go upstairs for now.”

Elizabeth nods. She can’t imagine entertaining people in a room with a naked picture of herself, no matter how tasteful. When Peter’s mouth touches Neal, he involuntarily jolts back against her, shocking the breath out of her. 

“Sorry,” he whispers, fingers squeezing hers as he takes most of his weight back. She puts her lips to the side of his forehead, watching Peter. Although she can’t see details with Peter’s head in the way, she can feel the undulations through Neal, his back arching and subsiding.

Apparently, her husband is versatile. She loves the way he eats her, knowing not to break contact, moving smoothly from one rhythm to another. But with Neal, he’s changing a lot, shifting his hands, moving slower and then faster. Neal can’t anticipate what will happen next. She reaches out and runs her fingers into Peter’s hair to make contact with him and feel the subtle movements. Neal moans then, his first such sound, and Peter’s next movement in response is a little more forceful.

“I think he likes hearing you,” Elizabeth says, and then gasps. In one dexterous move, Peter’s right hand has found its way up her skirt, making her surge against Neal. He’s panting now, clearly trying to hold on, gripping her hand for dear life. Peter slows down with him, matching to Elizabeth’s preferred speed, giving Neal a chance to breathe. She focuses, her movements following Peter’s fingers outside and inside. Neal’s back is deliciously compressing one hyper-sensitized breast as he moves. She already has a deep sexual connection to the scent of Peter and Neal together and the heat of their bodies has intensified it. It’s all converging, but she’s just self-conscious enough to stay at the brink, and frustration is mounting. 

“I’d like to kiss you,” Neal murmurs. 

“Oh!” Elizabeth exhales in surprise as Peter’s fingers thrust deeper in agreement, his thumb stroking harder. She offers her mouth. Neal’s lips are so easy and gentle, his restraint is intoxicating. His tongue brushes hers lightly, his teeth graze her bottom lip and immediately ease back. He isn’t fucking her with his mouth, he’s loving her in soft swells, forward and back. And then, he moans into her and she knows he’s coming, that Peter’s riding the pulses, swallowing, and that blows her mind and body. 

Her throat hurts, which means she didn’t manage to keep quiet. Her head lolls on the couch and registers Neal’s hand still entwined with hers. Her other hand remains on Peter’s head, but now she feels fingers touching hers there too. She looks down, and Peter is resting his cheek on Neal’s thigh, her hand and Neal’s wound into his hair. He’s still holding Neal’s softened cock, greedily, is the word she would use if the word part of her brain were functioning. She realizes that Peter still has a grip on her too and she almost laughs. The circuit they make is complete if complicated to the extreme. 

She turns to Neal and has to pull back to meet his eyes, their faces are so close. He smiles, his gaze open and soft. It’s a different expression than she’s ever seen on him before, but it looks happy. He nods once in Peter’s direction and she squeezes his hand. 

“Peter,” Neal says, and his voice is smooth now, “our turn.”

Peter shakes his head, lifting it from Neal’s thigh as he slides free from Elizabeth, gently rearranges Neal’s underwear, and attends to the zipper. “Too damn late,” he mock grumbles. “This suit just came back from the cleaners.”

Neal’s eyes are wide, incredulous, as Elizabeth laughs, delighted. “You did _not_ ,” he says. They all know exactly where his hands were at all times. 

“Did.” Peter’s eyes are twinkling. Elizabeth thinks the mussed shirt, rumpled hair, and well-worked mouth might be his sexiest look ever. “If it hadn’t felt so amazing, I might be disappointed. When Elizabeth was talking earlier about needing you inside so badly, I thought maybe you’d be willing to show me if that’s all it’s cracked up to be for the recipient.”

Despite knowing that she and Neal are both looking at Peter with open mouths, Elizabeth doesn’t laugh. “Well, I don’t want to impugn Neal here, but I’m guessing you’ve ruled that out for tonight.”

“Definitely,” Neal says. He’s searching Peter’s face carefully. “And we’ve talked about this… it isn’t either of our thing.”

“Can’t explain it. I’ve had the urge more than once since we’ve been together.” He shrugs. “Another time. Sorry for taking everyone out of commission, but I just couldn’t help it.” 

“You’re an exception to the declaration that men can’t multitask,” Elizabeth says, extracting herself from the tangle and helping Peter climb to his feet after so long on his knees. “That was the most amazing feat of sexual giving ever.” She surveys the soaking ruin of his wool trousers. “I better sponge those before we foist them off on the cleaners.” 

“I’ll do it,” Peter chides. 

“I should go,” Neal says, glancing at his watch.

She has come to recognize how he looks when he doesn’t want to overstay his welcome. “It’s officially the weekend,” Elizabeth says. “No need to rush off. Unless you’re exhausted,” she adds. 

Peter leans and whispers to Elizabeth. “He could stay with us tonight.” 

She looks into his eyes for a long moment. If they’ve proven anything tonight, it’s that they can get through difficult, complicated, stressful, and make something worthy from it. Although the intimacy of sleeping together is intense, less romantic, more real, Neal and Peter have already crossed that river. “I can make up the guest room, if you want to put me to the trouble,” she says with a sly smile. “Or you can bunk with us tonight and make it easy for me. But Peter gets the middle. I have to pee too often to be climbing over you two.”

Neal’s brows pull together. She doesn’t know which part of all this he’s struggling with. “Not tonight,” he says, finally. “But soon, I think, if the offer’s still good another time.” 

“Of course.” “—Absolutely.” She and Peter speak at once.

Neal stands, somewhat gingerly. “I think you broke something,” he says to Peter. 

“Can I take you home?”

Neal shakes his head. “A brisk walk and a taxi are just what I need to clear my head.” He looks at one Burke and then the other. “I have to be honest, you two scare me to death right now.”

Elizabeth puts her hand on his arm, compassion flooding through her. “How so?” She knows he holds back a great deal, and for good reasons. But tonight, he’s raw and earnest, so she pushes.

“I’m finding my way, out here, trying on this person who does the right thing. Don’t know yet if he fits. I’m trying to move on from Kate—I can’t live the rest of my life without the kind of love you two have for each other.” He takes a long, edgy breath. “Falling for Peter, well, that wasn’t part of any plan, especially since as much as we all try to ignore it, he holds the keys to my freedom.” He toys with Elizabeth’s fingers. “And you. How I feel now… what does that do to my white picket fence, one-man-woman, patter of little feet dream?” 

None of them has a ready answer to that. 

“Tonight was incredible. I don’t mean to lay a bunch of baggage on it.” He looks at Peter. “I’m not looking for space from you. But I can’t climb into the bed you two share as husband and wife. Not right now.”

Peter grips Neal’s shoulder. “Whatever you need. I hope you know that.” He pulls him into a hug and Neal clings before pulling away. 

“Can we all get together tomorrow? For a meal or something. I need to see you in the daylight and as soon as possible.” He’s smiling now and it isn’t fake, but there’s uncertainty around his edges.

Elizabeth looks at her best friend and soul-mate, and then at the mystery they’ve begun unraveling. “Breakfast,” she says, with mischief, “Neal, you score the good coffee. I’ll bring the food. Peter, you grab the papers. We’ll meet at 9 a.m. sharp. At Tiffany’s.”  
*******


End file.
